Ralph did not halt. His challenger was Grif Farrington, his arm linked in that of a chum whom Ralph did not know, both smoking cigarettes, and both showing the rollicking mood of young would-be sports who wished it to be believed they had been making a night of it, and thinking it smart.
"What's the uniform, Fairbanks?" cried Grif, affecting a critical stare--"going fishing? Is that a bait box?"
"Not a bit of it. It's my dinner pail, and I'm going to work, at the roundhouse."
"Chump!"
"Oh, I guess not."
"Double-distilled! Make more money going on the circuit with the club. Personally guarantee you ten dollars a week. Got scads of money, me and the old man. Sorry," commented Grif in a solemn manner, as Ralph continued on his way unheeding. "Poor, but knows how to bat. Pity to see a fellow go wrong that way, eh?" he asked his companion.
Ralph laughed to himself, and braced up proudly. Between idle, dissolute Grif Farrington and himself he could see no room for comparison.
Some sleepy loungers were in the dog house, and a fireman was running his engine to its stall. Ralph went over to the lame helper he had seen the day previous.
"I'm to begin work here to-day, I was told," he said. "Can you start me in?"
"I'm not the boss."